Far away there was a merry feast, almost an orgy; a youth was laughing, shouting, and pouring wine upon the flowers amid the applause and drunken laughter of his companions.

The old man had the features of _his_ father, the youth was himself, and the name that the old man uttered with tears was _his own_ name! This was what the wretched young man saw before him.

The lights in the house opposite were extinguished, the music and the noises ceased, but Ibarra still heard the anguished cry of his father calling upon his son in the hour of his death.
Silence had now blown its hollow breath over the city, and all things seemed to sleep in the embrace of nothingness.

The cock-crow alternated with the strokes of the clocks in the church towers and the mournful cries of the weary sentinels.

A waning moon began to appear, and everything seemed to be at rest; even Ibarra himself, worn out by his sad thoughts or by his journey, now slept.
Only the young Franciscan whom we saw not so long ago standing motionless and silent in the midst of the gaiety of the ballroom slept not, but kept vigil.